GTA Vice City: A Special Car
by ReconC91
Summary: When a well paid buinessman has his car taken mysteriously by Downtown's Biker Gang, he is forced from a world of files and reports and into Vice City's underworld...a world filled with guns, drugs, and plenty of violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Downtown, Vice City_

"That's right, bring it over here." The biker called.

Mark had his window down so that he could hear the biker's demands. He was slowly inching his brand new and spotless silver Banshee into a desolate alleyway in Downtown. Here in this alley, the busy streets of Downtown were no more. People would not hear your screams, they would not see you running away, and probably wouldn't hear gunshots. Oh no, they would hear that. And yet here the bikers were, at least seven of them. Two of them had Ak 47s pointed right at Mark's head through the windshield, three of them were behind the Banshee (making sure Mark didn't do anything funny), one was keeping watch at the entrance to the alley, and then there was the idiot waving Mark forward with his free hand. In his other hand he has MP5 sub-machine gun.

Mark was a businessman, so what the hell was he doing here, with these people? He remembered that he bought the car from Sunshine Autos. It was almost a day after he had done that when a couple of bikers jumped him as he was heading towards the car from work. They said they wanted it, and that if they didn't get, they would kill Mark. So Mark drove it into this alley as previously arranged, and now he was trapped. The bikers could do whatever they wanted with him.

What the hell did people like the Biker Gang want with a sports car anyway? They drove bikes all the time…bike riding was their passion. Other than the drug business, Mark supposed. But he wanted to know why he was giving up his brand new car to a bunch of people who didn't drive cars in the first place.

The biker waving him forward held up his hand firmly to tell Mark to stop. Mark did so, and put the car in park.

"Alight, now get out." The biker ordered, lifting his MP5.

Mark got out of the car and when he slammed the driver side door closed it echoed throughout the alley. He waited for more instructions. He heard one of the three bikers behind him dial a number on a cell phone.

"Step away from the car." The biker with the MP5 said.

Mark stepped a few paces away from it. The biker looked towards his comrades with the Aks. "You guys get in it," he said. "You know where to take it."

They nodded, and both got into Mark's Banshee (which really wasn't his anymore), and drove off out of the alley as soon as the three bikers behind the car moved out of the way. The one on the phone had hung up…Mark wasn't able to overhear the conversation.

"Thanks for the car, man." The biker with the MP5 laughed. "We left a ride to replace it." He and his Biker friends got onto a couple of loud and obnoxious Angels and drove out of the alley. Mark looked over at where the Biker had pointed. There was a rusty Sanchez leaning up against a wall. Mark growled with anger.

He was going to figure out where his car went, and then he was going to get it back.


	2. Chapter 2

_Bloc Insurance Firm, Downtown; Vice City_

Mark could not sleep the night he had gotten home from the alleyway meeting. The situation just pissed him off so much! He had just bought that car! That stupid dirt bike wasn't an act of mercy from the Bikers, either. Sitting in his office chair, his ass hurt from having to ride that thing around the city. Mark's mind was so consumed by thinking about the incident that he could barely think about the work in front of him. Why should he be so worried about this? People get robbed in Vice City everyday. He had it made compared to a lot of people in this city. His was one promotion away from being vice president of his insurance company, he was the star player of the whole firm, he had a luxurious office with a great view of the Downtown district, and he even had a great house in Vice Point. So why should he be so worked up about the Banshee?

Mark knew exactly why…

A knock on his open office door interrupted his thoughts. Mark looked up from his desk to see the current vice president, Jack Matter, standing there.

"Hey Mark, got a minute?" Jack asked.

"Sure, yeah." Mark answered sullenly, unable to mask his depression.

Jack smiled and came into the room, sitting down in one of the two chairs that faced Mark's desk. "I just wanted to talk about a few things."

"Go ahead." Mark said, rubbing his eyes.

"Shit," Jack laughed, "What veered off the road and hit you in the face?"

"I didn't get any sleep last night, that's all." Mark replied coldly.

"Well you better shape up if you want my job!" Jack chuckled. "The boss is entering retirement; going someplace further south, I think; so you and I are both going to move up in the world."

"Yippe." Mark said unemotionally.

"Alright, two weeks ago you would have been just giddy about that." Jack observed. "There's something wrong. Tell me what's up."

"Just a bit of family business." Mark lied. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Alright." Jack said, unsatisfied. "Well what I really wanted to talk to you about was the Shrub account."

"That's high level stuff…not for me, in other words." Mark answered.

"But you are high level! You're the best guy we have, Mark!" Jack protested. "All you need to do is talk to Congressmen Shrub and see what he wants to put insurance on."

"I can't even if I wanted to. I already arranged a meeting with a client today for lunch. I'm sorry." Mark said, and he sorted some papers on his desk into piles.

"Well alright," Jack sighed, standing. "Try and get some more sleep then."

"Thanks." Mark smiled weakly.

After Jack left his office, March began to pack up some things. He really did have a meeting with a real client, but the client in question was someone who could help Mark with his 'car trouble'.

_Robina Café, Little Havana_

Mark was so consumed by the thoughts of his car and the Bikers that he left his sandwich untouched. He tried to think of what questions he could ask his client without being suspicious. It was not long before his client walked into the café, fully dressed in his Vice City police officer uniform. The officer saw Mark and smiled, sitting down at the same table.

"Hey, how's it going?" the officer asked.

"Alright." Mark lied. "How are things for you, Sam?"

"Good, good. Patrol is pretty quiet, and this is one of Vice's toughest areas." Sam smiled. "So what am I in trouble for?"

"Trouble?" Mark forced a laugh. "No trouble. I just wanted to talk about some things."

"Alright then, shoot." Sam asked. The owner of the café, Mr. Robina, came over to the table and asked what Sam wanted with a dirty look. Sam ignored the look and asked for a cup of coffee. Mr. Robina walked back to the counter.

"What was that for?" Mark inquired.

"Oh," Sam chuckled, and leaned in closer. He now spoke at almost a whisper. "This is the Cuban Gang's base of operations. They don't like cops, obviously."

"I see. Speaking of gangs, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Mark said, pushing his sandwich out of the way. "What do you know about the Biker Gang?"

"Oh," Sam said, raising his voice to normal again. "Well, I know that the only thing they care about is money, drugs, hookers, and bikes. They also control the Downtown area, unfortunately. I would really like to raid that bar of theirs, but we can't get a warrant."

"Bar?" Mark asked.

"Yeah, the Greasy Chopper or whatever—it's in Downtown." Sam said. "Why are you asking about them? You're just an insurance agent, right?"

Mark almost laughed at that.

"The Bikers stole my new car last night." Mark said.

"Oh shit." Sam answered. "That's harsh."

"I want it back from them, and I want to know why they took it." Mr. Robina came back with the coffee and walked away when Sam gently took it from him. Sam put the coffee on the table and gave Mark a weary look.

"You mean you want to go ask them?" Sam said, unsure.

"Yeah. Sure, why not?" Mark replied. Sam laughed nervously.

"The Bikers don't just let people into their places of business. You have to be a Biker to get in."

Mark didn't say anything, but he made it clear that he was going to do something about his car.

"Listen man," Sam said, "I'll file a report about your car, and I'll even look into it myself. But just don't go all vigilante on me or anything. I have to say though, if your car has been with them since last night, then I'm sure that it's already gone."

"Thanks." Mark sighed, disappointed. He thought that Sam would have been able to help him, not discourage him. Whatever Sam said though, it was not going to stop Mark from tracking down his Banshee.

"Hey, I guess I better go."

"Okay. Just promise me you won't do something stupid. I need somebody to take care of my insurance." Sam took a sip from his coffee. Mark smiled as he grabbed his briefcase and left. It was not until after the café door had closed behind him that realized he had not actually promised anything back to Sam. It was time to go see what kind of an establishment the Greasy Chopper really was.


End file.
